


The Lilies of the Field

by patchworkofstars



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Food, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchworkofstars/pseuds/patchworkofstars
Summary: The last thing Harold Slow expects on the 14th of February is a knock on his door.
Relationships: Bridgette McCarthy/Blind Arry
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The Lilies of the Field

The last thing Harold Slow expects on the 14th of February is a knock on his door.

...Scratch that, the _very_ last thing he expects is to open that door and find Mrs McCarthy waiting on the other side.

She’s dressed up, too, he can tell. Not that she doesn’t always look radiant in his eyes, but he can tell when she’s made a bit of extra effort. He’s known her long enough to have seen which outfits she wears for everyday and which are for special occasions, and what she has on today is one of her favourites. Fancy, like, and it brings out the blue of her eyes as she stands there smiling at him.

He blinks hard, but she doesn’t disappear, so he’s fairly sure she’s real.

“Mrs McCarthy?” he says, surprise clear in his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She gives him one of those patient, long-suffering looks she frequently gets with him. “I’ve come to thank you for the flowers”, she replies, “And I’ve brought you a little something in return.” She holds up a cooking pot, and he catches the delicious aroma of home-cooked stew.

Now, Harold Slow isn’t a man inclined to blush, but he feels a warmth creep up the back of his neck anyway. “’Ow d’you know the flowers was from me?”

She purses her lips and gives him a Look. “ _Most_ people would have bought something, not picked wildflowers, especially in February. You’re the only man I know who’d leave those anonymously on my doorstep.”

The warmth spreads up from his neck to faintly tinge his cheeks. “I wasn’t sure you’d want ‘em from me”, he explains sheepishly. “I thought maybe if I just left ‘em, you’d appreciate ‘em more.”

“Now don’t be silly, of course I’d rather know who’s leaving me gifts. At least then I can be sure it’s not Penelope up to mischief.” Her face softens. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed you managed to find anything at all. And they certainly are pretty, even if snowdrops and crocuses make for a very small bouquet.”

“Not much about at this time of year”, he says apologetically. “I ‘unted all over Kembleford, but they was all I could find.”

“And I do appreciate the effort.” She smiles, holding up the pot again. “Now, are you going to let me in, so we can eat this before it gets cold?”

‘Arry stands aside with a bow and lets her into the main living room of his barn, quickly grabbing a bottle off the table and stashing it out of sight before she sees.

Mrs McCarthy pauses just inside the doorway, looking around at the barn’s interior. If her expression is anything to go by, she’s not impressed. “Well, I suppose it keeps the rain off”, she remarks.

“Mostly”, ‘Arry concedes. “No need to worry about that on a fine day like this, though. He pats the little wooden table nearby. “Put the pot down ‘ere and make yourself at ‘ome.”

She does so, and right away, they can both see a problem. "Don't you have a bigger table?" she asks.

“Sorry, I’m afraid that’s the only one I’ve got. It’s not often I get company, see, so it normally does for me.”

She sighs. “Well, never mind. I was afraid something like this would happen, that’s why I brought this with me.” Rummaging in her shopping bag, she pulls out a picnic blanket. “There”, she says, unfolding it with a flourish, “This should make things easier.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?” ‘Arry says admiringly.

She gives him a pleased smile. “Well, when you’ve spent as much time as I have keeping a scatterbrained priest organised, not to mention dealing with Sid and Bunty, you learn to plan ahead for every eventuality. Now, where shall we put this?”

“Gimme a moment.” ‘Arry goes and grabs a bale of hay from the back of the barn, and hauls it over. “’Ow about we spread it over this, an’ use that for a table?”

She gives it a sceptical look as she tests the hay with her hand, but it’s solid enough and stable on the ground, and once they’ve spread the blanket over it, it makes a respectable enough table.

“I suppose this will have to do”, she says. “We won’t be able to tuck our legs underneath, but at least it’s big enough.”

“I’ll fetch some bowls”, ‘Arry tells her, and while she takes off her coat and gets settled, he grabs his two best food bowls for them to use. They don’t exactly match, but they’re both clean and free from chips, which is more than can be said for most of his crockery. Mrs McCarthy looks a bit dubious when he hands them over, but she serves up the stew without comment, so presumably they pass muster.

It feels cosy as anything, sitting there with a bowl of stew each and his little storage heater to combat the February chill. When she says grace, he adds his own silent thank you, just in case there really is a good God listening.

At the first mouthful, he closes his eyes and basks in the taste of it, with a hum of contentment. She shakes her head and tuts at him with exasperation, but there’s a fondness in her eyes, so he doesn’t let it bother him.

“You left the good Father to fend for ‘imself, then?” he asks, as he makes a proper start on the meal.

“Not at all. I made enough stew for four people, so he’ll be having the same at the presbytery. Along with Penelope, I have no doubt.” She shakes her head. “I just hope he manages to talk her into behaving herself later, although knowing him, he’ll probably get himself invited along instead.”

“Oh, she’s got plans of ‘er own for today, then?”

Mrs McCarthy sighs. “She’ll be holding a party at Montague this evening, and who knows _what_ she and her friends will get up to. It’s times like this I wish her aunt were still in Kembleford. Heaven knows she got up to her own fair share of misbehaviour, but at least her parties always maintained a certain level of decorum.”

Bunty's parties sound like a blast, if you ask ‘Arry, but he knows it’s reassurance that’s needed here. “I wouldn’t worry about that one, Mrs McCarthy”, he tells her. “She’s got a good ‘ead on her shoulders, ‘as young Miss Windermere, and all that time she’s spent with you and the Father ‘as got to count for something. I reckon you two ‘ave been more like parents to 'er than 'er own flesh and blood.”

To his surprise, her expression goes all soft, and she turns a bit pink. “Oh!” she says, putting her free hand to her chest. “Well. I just hope you’re right and she uses some common sense tonight.”

~~*~~*~~*~~

It’s the best damn stew he’s ever tasted, and he savours every morsel. She’s deep into regaling him with some saga about the postmistress’s cheese ration, and he’s trying to pay attention, but he lost the thread of it a while back, and now he’s not sure how the bakery’s new assistant fits into everything. He keeps getting caught up in the way she tells it; the way she leans conspiratorially forward, the animation in her face, and the lilt of her Irish accent.

He takes another forkful of stew and lets the flavour of it fill his mouth. It tastes of comfort, and of something that might not be love, but is affection anyway. He’ll take that, and gladly. It’s still more than he thinks he deserves.

Soon enough, she realises his mind has wandered off somewhere. “Are you even listening to me?” she chastises, and he snaps back to attention.

“’Course I am! Only, there’s a lot to take in, what with the food, and the conversation, and ‘aving you here with me.”

“And what on earth is that supposed to mean?” She frowns.

“Well, it don’t seem real, you doin’ this for me, ‘specially not today. I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up an’ it’ll all be a dream.”

“Now don’t you start that”, she tells him firmly. “I just thought, when I saw the flowers, that a nice hot, nutritious meal would do you good.

He tilts his head and gives her a wry smile. “That’s as maybe, but I ‘aven’t ‘ad a meal this good since the last one you gave me. Knocks the socks off anything I can make myself or get at the Red Lion.”

“Oh!” She gives him a flattered smile. “Well, in that case, perhaps we should do this more often. I don’t suppose it would do any harm to get to know one another other better. So long as you don’t go getting any ideas, mind.”

He presses his palm to his chest. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She gives him a sceptical look, but it quickly melts back into a smile. “Well then”, she says, “So long as we understand one another. Shall we say once a month?”

He nods frantically, not trusting himself to speak.

Her eyes move past him to look around once more at the barn’s interior, with its hay bales, and dirt, and woodwork that’s seen better days. She purses her lips. “ _However_ , in the future, I think you’d be better off coming to my cottage. That way, we’ll have a proper dining table, and I won’t have to carry the food all the way over here.”

He grins. “Makes sense to me!” It’s more than he’s ever dared dream of, and he hides his hands in his lap for a moment, just so he can pinch his wrist and check it’s all still real.

~~*~~*~~*~~

Now, Mrs McCarthy’s a busy lady, parish secretary and all. Much as he’d love it, he knows she can’t hang about in a barn all afternoon, chatting with the likes of him. Still, it’s more of a wrench than he expects, when she looks at her watch and says it’s time she was leaving.

He helps her pack her bags with all the bits and pieces she brought, and she lets him help her into her winter coat. He takes a bit of pride in it, too, that she’s giving him the chance to show he can be a gentleman.

It’s chilly outside, away from the storage heater that keeps the barn comfortable. Still, she lingers in the doorway longer than he expected, and he’s grateful for those extra moments in her company. Funny, really, how much it means to him. He’d wondered a bit if she’d had enough of him when she said she had to rush off, but when it comes down to it, she seems almost as reluctant to part as he is. He tucks that thought away in his memory, along with everything else from her visit, to think of when the loneliness gets him down.

“Now, mind you look after yourself”, she tells him firmly. “I don’t want you going down with anything before our meal next month.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world”, he replies, with absolute conviction.

She gives him a brief soft look before she turns away, and he doffs his bowler hat and waves as he watches her walk to the corner of the barn. She pauses, then, on the corner, and turns and waves back, with a smile that outshines the winter sun. Then she rounds the corner and disappears from view, leaving the barn behind feeling emptier than it should. For once, though, ‘Arry’s left with the promise of more of her company in the future. That will be something to cling to when the shadows crowd his mind.

In his eyes, she’s like the lilies of the field, blooming proud and splendid in the blessing of the Lord. She reminds him of the girls of his youth, before the Great War stole it away along with the dreams he once had. He’s old now, has been in spirit for longer than in years, and there’s whisky on his breath he knows she disapproves of. But when she smiles at him, it warms even his shattered heart, and he glimpses those carefree summers once again.


End file.
